


Simple but Smart/Complicated but Stupid.

by WendyNerd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: And like making things together, Arya wants to fuck her annoyance away, F/M, Gendry and Sansa are bros, Jon is jealous, Promptfic, Smut Fic, Trials and Tricks fic, Warning: references to past abuse, for Arya's name day, two sex scenes for the price of one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 11:48:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5247173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNerd/pseuds/WendyNerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To the prompt: A Jon x Sansa prompt in spirit of a subject we've discussed in the past: Sansa and Gendry have a great amount of respect towards each other's craftsmanship and an understanding of the hard work behind it, the respect of an artisan towards an other. Arya is annoyed; Jon is jealous. You get chocolat chips cookies if he get to discuss it with someone else before the obligatory smut ;o)</p><p>Basically, this ended up becoming a smut fest. Arya and Gendry. And Jon and Sansa.</p><p>Gendry and Sansa start collaborating on Arya's name day present and spending time together. Jon act irrationally jealous and kind of douchey. His sister is just sick of this shit and wants her lover to bang her brains out so she doesn't have to think about her idiot brother. Sansa is observant and wants to remind Jon that he's the man she wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simple but Smart/Complicated but Stupid.

**Author's Note:**

> warning: unbeta'd. Spur of the moment. A Trials and Tricks fic. So, if you're not familiar with it: Jon and Sansa are married and serve as Prince/Princess of Westeros and advisors to Daenerys. Arya is Acting Lady of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and co-ruler of the North with Sansa. She has a political marriage but Gendry is basically her unofficial husband. Sansa and Jon are visiting Winterfell for Arya's upcoming Name Day.

Arya:

Thud. Clang. Thud. Clang. Grunt. Grunt. Clang. Clang, Grunt. Thud.

Sweat matted her hair to her forehead and stung her eyes. She tried not to blink. Jon matched her for speed and she couldn’t miss a moment. 

Usually when they sparred, Arya was more inclined to thrust than parry. All men must die, but stick ‘em with the pointy end never would. Even Ravella, just over a year old, shouted bits of it like a mantra. 

But today, Jon was more aggressive than usual, and Arya found herself taking a far more defensive stance, deflecting and dodging constantly. She didn’t mind too much: most fighters around were nervous striking heavily at the acting Lady of the Castle. There were times she had to call in Lyra or one of her sisters just to get someone to hit at her properly. She’d welcome this far more.

 It was the motivation behind it that bothered her. 

At first, her sister had been skittish about it, out of fear of exciting her sister’s jealousy. Arya had been forced to take her sister aside and insist that it was fine. “I spend hours on end with Jon and you don’t mind.” 

Sansa had bit her lip at that, leaving the obvious but awkward reply unspoken: _Jon’s your brother!_

Their family dynamics were odd.

It really needn’t have been Arya that Sansa worried about though, if this match was anything to go by. The acting Lady of Winterfell ended up doing a somersault in the mud to avoid his charge and finally held up her hands, exhausted: “I yield!”

Jon lowered his practice blade, breathing heavily, and extended a hand to his sister, helping her up. They panted together in silence for a few seconds.

“I’m done,” Arya said, removing her helm. “You’ve tired me out, Brother.”

“Come on now, let’s have another go. I’m sure you have another round in you.” 

“Not since I had the babe,” she replied, sighing. It had been over a year, but her body still wasn’t quite in the same condition it had been in before. Becoming a mother had put more of a limit on her available time to practice in the yard, and her breasts still hurt even after weaning her daughter. Swordplay and armor were not things designed to accommodate milk-heavy breasts.

She scowled at her brother a bit. He was still fit and lithe as he ever was, and he had four children. _As always, everything’s easier for the men._ Sometimes it was hard not to hate them all for it.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot about your womanly needs,” he teased her.

“Grow a watermelon inside your belly, shit it out, then pump liquid out of your teats for a solid year, and we’ll see how fighting-fit you are,” she snarled, stung. “Do you treat your wife like this after she’s had a babe?”

It was Jon’s turn to scowl. “No, but----“

“---And she’s had far more practice at it than I have.” Usually Arya was all for jokes and messing around with her brother. But jokes regarding her body in regards to Ravella’s birth had since become a line she did not like having crossed. Birthing babes was the sort of horrendous business men had no right making light of. Not even her brother.

And Jon was acting stupid in general these days.

“She doesn’t complain as much as you do, either.”

Arya looked up then, shocked at this, and saw that her brother wasn’t even looking at her, but off towards the far side of the courtyard. Knowing what was likely commanding his attention, Arya looked over and had her fears confirmed. Walking along arm in arm were Gendry and Sansa, chatting happily to one another. 

Gendry and Sansa had spent the morning together again. This time, Sansa had traveled down to Gendry’s forge after breakfast. Arya had laughed to discover that her lover had set up a padded chair for Sansa to sit in comfortably while he worked. Arya had one in the audience hall, too. But Gendry had gotten one of the fine engraved and cushioned chairs from Sansa’s solar and placed it far enough for the sparks and smoke and such not to bother her, but close enough for them to hear one another.

The whole thing had been hysterical to see: Arya’s lady-princess sister, sitting primly in one of her fancy chairs, in charcoal lamb’s wool lined with vare, embroidery hoop in hand, sitting primly just a couple of yards from Gendry as he sweated over a hot forge, soot stains already on his bare arms.

Gendry was a knight now, and a recognized noble bastard. He was her Master of the Guards. But he never stopped smithing. Indeed, he prided himself on making all sorts of fine things now. Sturdy weapons, but also pretty ones. Gendry could still shoe a horse and craft kitchenware, but he preferred making weapons and armor, especially fancy pieces. He’d even taken lessons from the Wintertown goldsmiths. Thankfully, he never sacrificed substance for style, but he didn’t have to and he liked proving it. As a result, many of the guards of Winterfell were as nicely outfitted as any King’s Landing knight.

His pride and enjoyment in making pretty things happened to be shared by the Lady of Winterfell and Princess of Westeros, though she did it in a different medium.

This shared interest had been a source of comraderie for them for a while, and Arya was glad of it. Better that than her sister loathing Gendry for his place in the household, Arya’s bed, and his station. But up until now, they’d not pursued this to such a great degree. During many of Sansa’s past visits to Winterfell, either Gendry had been called away, one or both of them were too busy, the visits too short, or Sansa was with child. Sansa had fallen pregnant with the twins during her longest stay in the North last time, and knew the child she was carrying was male almost immediately when the smell of leather started causing her to retch. Thus, the forge wasn’t exactly the best place for her. 

But now, in the weeks leading up to Arya’s twenty-fourth Name Day, her sister and Gendry had been unencumbered by the usual obligations and medical conditions, and bonded more than ever.

Now they walked as friends. Arya’s lover was in his leather vest, arms smeared with sweat and soot, smiling as he led his princess along. There was nothing untoward about their stance, really. It was expected for a knight to lead a lady and give her his arm. It was a custom Arya tended to eschew--- she wasn’t a lady--- but was nothing for Sansa. She’d seen her sister walk on the arm of toothless old men, offering them more support than they offered her. She’d done it with their Uncle Edmure and cousin Ambrose. She used to do the same with their brother Robb, their father, with Jory. She walked elegantly, swathed in charcoal wool, looking invested in her conversation. 

It was nice to see. Sansa had long had reservations about Gendry’s place in Arya’s life. Arya’s marriage to Jannell Umber had helped assuage some of this, despite Sansa knowing how thoroughly platonic the match was and being aware of Ravella’s true parentage. Since then, she’d come to accept the untraditional arrangement and Arya’s unofficial consort. They’d come a long way from the night where Sansa had dragged poor Gendry by the ear and threatened to have him gelded.

The two of them were working on some sort of thing for Arya’s name day. She’d found some of the designs for what looked like armor among Gendry’s things two nights ago. It was sweet.

But there were admittedly, some annoying things about it all. Arya had since abandoned any sense of jealousy when it came to her sister. Her bond with Jon had remained remarkably unchanged despite the marriage. And Gendry was hers, always. But that didn’t mean things were perfect. 

For one thing, from the plans Arya had seen, what they were creating for her was far too ridiculous and pretty and ornate for anything she could actually wear. Sansa had never quite given up on making and sending Arya gowns (she sent doublets and such as well. But having three boys and only one girl had given her fewer outlets than she’d prefer when it came to dressmaking), and it looked like she might be making some sort of ludicrous surcoat now as well.

Worse, the armor looked to be plate. Arya hated plate mail.

She’d not hated all of her sister’s gifts, but she was worried she’d not love this. And that would be uncomfortable, especially considering all the work she and Gendry were obviously putting into it. But at a certain point it seemed to be more about the two of them having fun together than Arya herself. The younger Stark sister wouldn’t mind except she knew she’d be expected to wear the damn things at certain points to make them both happy. 

And then there was how Jon was acting.

Her brother and sister were as happily married as two people could be. That being said, there were… complications. Especially given some of the things Sansa had been forced into during the war, which included the beds of some less scrupulous lords who had taken advantage of the young, desperate queen being controlled by the likes of Petyr Baelish. The shit had manipulated and forced Sansa into more than a few men’s beds for various reasons, treating her as a prized whore.

Jon was better than most men, and did not hold such tragedies against his wife, thank the gods. However, this did lead to some awkward situations when either of them encountered one of Sansa’s former “bedmates”. It, understandably, put Jon on edge. A week prior, a visit from one of the Ryswells had caused tensions to rise. Arya ended up ordering the shit back to The Rills when his leers became too much for everyone. Some of these men acted ashamed, or appropriately formal and oblivious, but some found the idea that they’d bedded a former queen and current princess-wife of the heir to Dragons as a source of pride, regardless of the circumstances of said bedding.

Arya had long since given up her death list. But she did sometimes whisper a gelding list to her when she thought of the people who had exploited her sister. 

Gendry wasn’t one of them by any stretch, but there were a few up North, and it could cause the royal couples’ nerves to go on edge. Jon got even more possessive and protective of his wife when he came North. And, unfortunately, it didn’t take much to spark his jealousy. 

It was a miserable situation all around.

Consciously, everyone knew there was nothing wrong with Sansa and Gendry collaborating and being friends. But that meant little to the Prince of Westeros.

He hid much of this from his wife, fearing that he’d hurt her. A sensible, sensitive, and proper thing to do, in Arya’s opinion.

What was less sensible, sensitive, and proper, in Arya’s mind, was how he ended up taking it out on everyone else.

The acting Lady of Winterfell was almost ready to lie to her sister, tell her that she was jealous after all, just to separate her from Gendry and get Jon to calm down. But since the Ryswell visit, Sansa had needed some cheering up. And Gendry was happy.

“My sister wouldn’t voice her complaints to you,” Arya snapped, “She has to cater to your delicate male sensibilities.”

She pulled off her practice armor and climbed over the fence, hailing her lover and sister. She was a sweaty mess of linen, tangled hair, and dirt but if Gendry could lead a princess around covered in soot, then Arya could approach her sister a soaked mess. Considering how it was Sansa’s husband who had put Arya in this state, the younger Stark decided it was perfectly fair.

“I see we’ve all had an engaging morning,” Arya remarked, smiling and coming close. “But hopefully my captain of the guards hasn’t exhausted you the way your husband has exhausted me.”

“Yes. Hopefully.” Jon had followed behind her, practice armor still on. He looked ridiculous, trying to put his hands on his hips. 

“Neither of you hurt each other, did you?” Sansa asked, eyes narrowing in concern. She pulled away from Gendry and went to remove Jon’s helm, which the fool had forgotten to remove. The princess of Westeros brushed some hair away from his brow with a delicate hand, and placed a ghost of a kiss on his sweaty cheek. Arya took this time to take Gendry’s arm, admiring the glistening bulge of muscle in his fore-arms. She liked him fresh and sweaty from the forge. _Jon spent the morning causing me aches. Perhaps Gendry can spend midday giving me good ones._ He liked her sweaty too.

“We’re _fine,_ Sister. Just because we don’t look as pretty as you doesn’t mean we’re battered.” It did annoy her a bit how Sansa managed to emerge from Gendry’s smithy looking as prim and proper as ever. Arya always came out sweaty and stained. She knew the charcoal dress likely camouflaged a lot, but her sister’s hands, face, and neck were white as ever, and her hair was pinned back as neatly as ever.

“And you? Are you alright?” Jon asked anxiously.

 _For pity’s sake, Jon. Her hands aren’t even dirty!_ Sometimes, the concern and kindness Jon showed her sister was endearing. Now it was just irritating.

“Of course, my love. I just sat back and watched. Ser Gendry is a master craftsman, and he insured my safety and comfort. I had a very enlightening morning.”

“How are you?” Arya asked her lover, sick of her siblings and their stupid, complicated marriage.

“Well enough.” Gendry’s blue eyes flickered in annoyance. Jon’s jealousy used to worry and intimidate him. These days he grew as annoyed by it as Arya. She couldn’t blame him. Her man had never done anything wrong, yet he constantly had to put up with this. Even before Jon and Sansa were married, her brother had had suspicions of Gendry’s interest in keeping Sansa safe, not knowing that the knight did it for Arya’s sake. Even after the nature of his service was revealed, Jon persisted in this. And, unlike Arya, Gendry couldn’t get away with confronting Jon about it. He turned his eyes away from the royal couple and focused on her. “But there is something we ought to talk about, m’lady.”

“If you’ll excuse us,” Arya said to her siblings, leading Gendry away. They nodded and Sansa smiled graciously, thanking Gendry for his time

They were entering the family tower when Gendry asked her, “Should I just stop working with Her Grace?”

“No. That’s stupid. You’re not doing anything wrong. My brother is just ridiculous and always will be. You can’t do anything about that,” Arya told him as they began climbing the stairs.

“I’m just worried. I don’t want to cause trouble.”

“Then don’t. That’s my job. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to ring my bell, and I’d prefer if you didn’t think about my brother when doing it.”

She loved watching that handsome Baratheon face go red. And watching his blue eyes flash.

“Aye, milady.” When they got to the top of the stairs, he actually swooped her up and began carrying her. The two of them laughed as he kicked open the door to her solar. “Me feather bed is deep and soft, and I’ll lay you down…” He sang. 

“Sod the bed, the table’s good enough.” Something about the smell of iron and smoke and sweat that clung to him always got to her. She ripped her jerkin and tunic open and started unlacing his vest as she peppered kisses on his neck, licking beads of sweat.

Gendry laughed and proceeded to drop her on the heavy, round wooden table in the center of the room, pausing to push the maps off of it. Arya lay back and arched her back, tugging her trousers down her hips as Gendry tugged off her boots. Smiling eagerly, he pulled her leggings down all the way and pulled her upright to seize a kiss. Smirking, Arya reached between them to unlace him, reveling in the desperation and slickness. Eventually, she grew impatient with the ties and just tore them open, biting his lower lip and grunting as she did.

She loved her family, she did. But they always brought a wealth of complications with them whenever they visited. Arya needed this: raw and simple and just so very, very good.

Her legs found themselves hooking onto his hips, her hands running up the smooth plains of his back as he pushed her onto her back and entered her with a cry. “Gods yes!”

Before long, his mouth had latched to one of her nipples, suckling at it.  His hands found their way under her, squeezing her arse. “That’s a girl.”

“That’s a boy,” she replied breathlessly. He pounded into her desperately, hard and fast. Her man was thick, insistent, but his thrusts somehow managed to angle themselves just so. He applied the same passion and intricacies to his lovemaking that he did to his metalworking.

Arya loved her man. He never abandoned effort in anything he did. “Love you. Love you.”

“Love… you!”

She growled at him as she felt her peak approaching. It was times like this that she felt like a wolf in her own skin. “Harder,” she growled, and he obliged: not just with his thrusts, but with his mouth, biting down on the tip of her breast. She liked it.

A shockwave went through her, and it was in the midst of her reverie that she felt something hot release within her, and Gendry’s hips slow their pace until he came to a stop and collapsed atop her, gasping.

She cradled his head and for a while, huffing, out of breath. After a while, however, she managed to speak. “We smell awful.”

He laughed. “We do. We’re filthy. Shall we call for a bath?”

“Not quite yet.”

~_~_~_~_~_~

Jon:

Blue linen, smudged with grey in the corner, met his cheek. His wife wiped his face and brow, her hands gentle, and when she finished, she pressed a stronger kiss to his lips. 

Jon was a bit surprised at this, her being so blatant about kissing him on the mouth. There were workers and attendants and guards around, and his wife didn’t like being too public. But he enjoyed it all the same.

“What was that for?” He asked, pleased and happily distracted.

“For reminding you of how much I love you,” she said quietly, coyly, looking up at him through ginger lashes. “If my purpose wasn’t clear enough, perhaps there’s more I could do to press the point.” 

“What put you in this mood?” The prince asked. Then he had an unpleasant thought. “Was it---?” But he stopped himself. No. He wouldn’t trouble her with his idiotic jealousy. He was embarrassed enough about it. 

“Was it what?” Sansa asked, moving behind him to help him off with his practice armor.

“---Nothing.”

His wife sighed and leaned forward, her lips close to his ear. “If you’re wondering if I was… invigorated by Ser Gendry, the answer is no. He has something to do with my current mood, but not the way you think.”

Jon hurried to shrug off his armor and leave it to a squire. He took his wife’s arm, thoroughly vexed, and started leading her towards the godswood. The place had a habit of clearing his head. He whistled to Ghost as they moved, urging the direwolf to follow. It seemed off-putting to him that Sansa would say such a thing. Perhaps he was still too worked up from his fighting, but he couldn’t be sure what she meant.

Back at court, Gendry was known as “The Bull”. Women loved him. Sansa had even said he was good-looking before. _If the bastard spent the morning flexing his bare arms and muscles at her…_

He had nothing to fear from his wife. He knew that. And, in a sense, he knew Gendry was trustworthy. But there was only so much a man could take before rational thought ceased to matter and instinct took over. He felt as beastlike as he did when he entered Ghost’s head. A deep, abiding need to assert his possession of his wife took over. Even if he knew Gendry wasn’t wasn’t a threat, he couldn’t help but feel like Gendry was a threat.

Sansa stroked his arms as they made their way through the trees to the clearing by the Heart Tree. She smiled flirtatiously. Jon wanted to enjoy this more.

But those damn Baratheon arms and blue eyes and the name “Bull” kept hitting him. And the way Sansa had clutched his arm, leaned her head in and smiled at Gendry. And the time they were spending together… 

Gendry and Sansa were making something together. Designing some armor and clothing for Arya for her Name Day. They spent hours pouring over designs, talking about their crafts. Jon had never really taken up creating pretty things. On their quiet nights by the fire while his wife sewed, he liked taking a whet stone to Longclaw or going over account books or maps. Sometimes he wondered if perhaps he should have taken up some creative art, like drawing or playing an instrument. Sansa played the high harp, the bells, and was learning the lute now as well, and some nights she practiced. Jon sometimes felt tempted to learn something like that as well. He’d always enjoyed Mance’s songs, he’d be able to play with her. Even if he took up drawing, they could compare their work at the end of the night: his images, her embroidery. But he never really had. 

Meanwhile, Ser Gendry “The Bull” Waters, the blue-eyed knight, could make pretty little designs with metal and put his head together with Jon’s wife and spend hours talking about “designs”.

It was even worse than the shared love of poetry that Sansa had with Willas Tyrell. At least in that case, Missandei was usually around. But here…

He knew this likely had more to do with the Ryswells than anything. And he knew that he was being ridiculous. Gendry was Arya’s. And Arya wasn’t jealous. If there was reason to be, she would be. But Jon couldn’t help himself.

As they approached the pool, Sansa turned to him and smiled. “It’s not what you think, Husband. It’s just, I saw you there, all sweaty and glaring daggers at poor Ser Gendry, and I felt this overwhelming urge to remind you that there’s no other man I want.”

Jon reddened. Of course that was what she meant. And he’d failed to hide his jealousy, _of course._ He’d never been good at keeping things from his wife. He felt ashamed. 

“You needn’t pay any mind to my ridiculous envy, my lady.”

“You’re half right. Your envy is ridiculous, but that doesn’t mean I needn’t pay it any mind. Your feelings and needs are of great concern. I swore vows attesting to that. I did so happily.”

She circled him. “You need a bath, Husband.”

Still red, he began to strip off his wools, watching her carefully. “And you, Wife? What of your needs?”

“I need a clean husband. I want to join him in getting clean.” And with that, her fingers went to her bodice. Jon slipped his tunic over his head and kept his eyes on her. 

“You’re a finer wife than I deserve.” 

She leaned forward and gave him a fond little kiss to the lips. “And you’re a better husband than any lady has ever had. Not many men would apologize for their jealousy.”

Jon kicked off his boots. “Not many men have enough sense to fill a thimble.”

“You’ve always been terminably sensible.”

 “Not when it comes to you,” he replied, his voice wavering as her gown opened. She dropped it to the ground, leaving her in her linen shift, stockings, and smallclothes. His eyes followed the curves of her hungrily. He could just make out the peaks of her nipples through the fabric. To prove his point, he seized her and pulled her to him, pressing his hardness into the swell of her hip and crashing their mouths together. 

She whined, spurring him on. Jon began frantically unpinning her hair, removing the last of her clothing. She undressed him with the same speed and desperation, their mouths joined and only breaking apart for the briefest of breaths.

But when Jon bent over to pull off his breeches, Sansa pulled away, clad in nothing but her stockings. Jon spotted the burst of red curls beaten her legs and licked his lips. She smiled at him, mouth swollen, blue eyes bright, and tugged off her linen stockings, doing the most adorable of little hops as she tugged them off her dainty feet. Jon couldn’t help but laugh a little. 

This laughter was quieted when he saw her expression darken. “You mock me?” She asked.

“No!” He said defensively, panicking.  _What did I do?!_

She walked toward him, her expression like death. Jon backed away, suddenly somewhat threatened.

“It’s not polite to laugh at a lady when she is naked before you, Jon Snow.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I just liked the way you---“

“---Bounced?” And with that, she pushed him straight into the water. 

Jon almost fainted from shock, crying out at the sudden lack of balance and arrival of water on his skin. He sunk for a second, submerging himself: the pool was deceptively deep, and marveled at his wife’s sense of mischief.“You minx!” He sputtered, not exactly displeased. He coughed a bit, then laughed. Sansa chewed her lip and surveyed him with a hunger that heated his blood. Then she pounced.

He mostly caught her, his hands a bit slippery, but it hardly mattered. One hand went to her red hair, another to her arse, and his mouth went to her neck, sucking on the skin there. He was so hard he could practically feel himself going blind. The two fumbled and giggled getting into position, and with a smooth thrust, he entered her. 

She clung to him like he was life itself. “I love you, Jon Snow. Love you, love you, love you.”

His hand went between her legs, finding the nub there, eager to return her declarations through actions.

 _Perhaps I cannot play the lute, but I can play her to perfection,_ Jon thought with satisfaction as he heard her breath speed up and whimpers echo from her pulsing throat. They’d been wed nearly half a decade, been fucking for almost a year longer. He knew her body better than anyone. He waited with excitement to feel her heels dig into his thighs. He grinned as she gripped his hair. He found the fight place between her neck and shoulder to suck on. He felt her cunny twitch just so around his cock.

Before long, she dipped her head back, arched her back, clutching his head and urging him to suck at her breasts. He obliged, very happy. Something about this, something about her, made him feel so very wanted, so very safe, so very loved in a new and revelatory way. A way he’d always craved, but never quite achieved until they’d fallen in love.

“Come on, Jon Snow. Make me scream.” She moaned. And Jon felt himself going wild, every nerve within him hyper-focused on answering that plea as thoroughly as possible.

He did make her scream. Twice. The second time, when she pushed his head back and pressed her mouth to his ear, nearly rendering him deaf in the most perfect way. _If that is the last thing I ever hear, I will die a happy man._

The prince tried to hold off his release as long as possible, wanting to give her all he could, wanting to prove that a dragon, a wolf, was better than any bull. But before long, she was crying out.

“Fill me up, Jon. I want it.”

With a shudder and a cry, he released himself, feeling more than a little dazed. His body became as much a liquid as the surrounding water.

They rested against the side of the pond, clutching one another. Everything was right with the world.

“Perhaps you should get jealous more often,” his wife murmured into his ear after a while. Jon chuckled.

“Keep spending time with Ser Gendry,” Jon said, giving her right teat and affectionate squeeze, “And you’ll get that wish.”


End file.
